


By The Sword

by Tynytyg



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A bunch of my headcanons about how relics work in the fe3h universe show up, Addiction, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Arguments, Claude von Riegan is a Little Shit, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, I have no excuses, I think I tagged everybody who has lines, I'm Sorry, In this case Catherine is addicted to her sword but it's addiction all the same, Mostly Canon Compliant, Relationship Problems, This Is Just Really Painful Y'all, This is a bad time for everyone, but he's only very briefly present, this is just about the suffering of these two dumb gays honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tynytyg/pseuds/Tynytyg
Summary: “Put your sword back in its place,” Jesus said to him, “for all who draw the sword will die by the sword.” - Matthew 26:52-“I’m sorry, I don’t know what else you want me to say!”“I don’t want you to say anything!” Shamir rounds on her, anger flashing in her dark eyes. “I want you to change. Leave the thrice-damned sword in its sheath, on the other side of the tent, for one night!”Catherine looks away, stung. “You know I can’t sleep without it,” she says, voice quiet.“That’s what I’m talking about,” Shamir presses on, unrelenting. “That sword is destroying you.”-Or: 5 Times Shamir Tried To Separate Catherine From Thunderbrand +1 Time She Didn't
Relationships: Catherine/Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look I'm really sorry guys, this idea just possessed me and now it's here. Good luck.  
> This is loosely set in my Of Monsters world, but you don't have to read those things to know what's going on.  
> Special thanks to my awesome beta Azurie as usual!

“Catherine, we need to talk about the sword.” 

Shamir, standing in the shade at the edge of the training grounds, regards her partner. They’ve been working together for close to three years now, and there are several topics Shamir has been putting off discussing. She’s never been good at confrontation, not with words and not on the battlefield, which is why she’d prefer it if she could just shoot an arrow at Catherine’s feet–ideally from dense cover–and have her get the message. Unfortunately that’s not how humans work. 

As much as she hates it, Shamir knows that if she has to endure one more mission with Catherine, one more interminable period of painful closeness with this beautiful, stubborn, frustrating, incredible woman, without saying something, she’s going to break. She’s going to shout at Catherine about something that doesn’t matter, Catherine will give her that kicked puppy face, and then she’ll ask Rhea for a new partner. There are several things they need to discuss, not least of which is the way Catherine makes her feel. So Shamir picks the hardest conversation first because, she reasons, it will make the rest that much easier. 

Catherine looks at the wooden training sword in her hand in confusion before realizing Shamir’s probably not talking about that one. She’s down to her shirtsleeves in the late Blue Sea Moon heat, toned forearms bared and top two buttons undone, sweat beading on her forehead, the line of her neck, her collar bones. The thin material of the shirt she wears under her armor clings to her, damp and translucent. Shamir represses the urge to drag Catherine to the baths and force her to clean up and dress properly before someone else sees. Reminds herself that plenty of people see Catherine training. The thought creates a pang of jealousy. She quashes that too. 

“About Thunderbrand?” Catherine asks, still a little breathless with exertion. She stretches, then uses the bottom of her shirt to wipe the sweat off her face. Shamir swallows hard, clings to her resolve. 

“Yes.”

When she doesn’t elaborate, Catherine shrugs and takes her sword to the weapon rack. She turns expectantly to Shamir, who leads her away from the training grounds and into one of the monastery’s many secluded little nooks. She’d chosen the spot for maximum privacy without compromising the neutrality of a public space, so they’re in the knights’ quarter, far from the prying eyes of gossipy teenage nobles. When they arrive, Catherine plunks down on a stone bench and waits. It’s taken a long time to drill patience into her partner; a few years ago Catherine would’ve been peppering her with questions the moment they were alone.

“Thunderbrand is eating you. I think you need some time away from it,” Shamir says bluntly. She’s decided to do this, she might as well just get it over with. 

Catherine gapes at her for a moment. Then she looks irritated. “Seriously? You drag me away from my training for this? You don’t know anything about it, and frankly I’m a little offended you think you’re in a position to tell me what to do with  _ my  _ relic.”

“You told that Linhardt kid that it ‘wears away at your soul,’” Shamir points out. “You told Seteth you forgot what happened when Rhea healed you. Gilbert mentioned that you challenged him to spar last week after you nearly had your arm bitten off by a demonic beast, and Manuela told you to rest it for three days.”

“ _ Lady _ Rhea. And that’s just the way I am!” Catherine protests, shifting uncomfortably on her bench. She won’t look Shamir in the face. “I’m a forgetful person, and I like to fight. I can’t get a good night’s sleep on a day I haven’t done any training, you know that.”

Shamir regards her skeptically, arms crossed over her chest. “Mhm. And what you said to Linhardt?”

“That– I…” There’s an uncomfortable pause. Catherine’s voice is softer, more tired, when she speaks next. “I wasn’t lying. But I  _ need _ it, Shamir. We couldn’t complete our missions without its power.”

“So we’ll ask Rhea for some easier missions for a while,” she counters. “I’m not asking you to give it up entirely, I’m not crazy. Just take a break.”

“Shamir,” Catherine snaps, angry again. “Address Lady Rhea with the proper respect. Honestly, it’s like you’re going out of your way to make me mad.”

“And you’re changing the subject. We’ve had the ‘lady’ argument enough times by now that you know all my points and I know yours. Take a break from Thunderbrand. One week. I’m not asking much.”

Abruptly, Catherine stands. She’s taller than Shamir, bulkier even without her armor. Naturally, being a warrior and a generally rough-and-tumble person, she uses her body and reputation to get her own way all the time. Shamir’s seen her do it. Everything from backing down bandit chiefs through the sheer power of intimidation, to throwing men out of bars for harassing the women who worked there; Catherine is a physical person. 

She’s never tried it on Shamir, though. 

“Don’t try to dictate how I handle my own sword!” she half-shouts. Shamir takes a step back, tries to keep her cool. If she wasn’t absolutely certain her partner wouldn’t hurt her, she might be afraid. Catherine begins to pace like a trapped animal. “I’ve been entrusted with it by Lady Rhea herself! I can handle Thunderbrand. I’ve had it for years now, and nobody’s ever said anything bad about it before.”

“Maybe they weren’t paying enough attention,” Shamir snaps.

Catherine pauses to look at her, as if struck by something in Shamir’s words. She quirks an eyebrow up. “Maybe they weren’t. Nobody’s ever watched me as closely as you do.” 

The eyebrow is messy, individual hairs sticking out at odd angles and stiffening there as Catherine’s sweat dries. Without really thinking, Shamir reaches out and runs her thumb along the arch of it, smoothing the short hairs back into place. Then she freezes, realizing what she’s doing. How close that action has brought them.

In combat, personal space isn’t really a thing. The two of them have hauled each other bodily away from danger fairly often, and Shamir has taken blows meant for Catherine on more than one occasion. She’s sure her partner has done the same, since they fight back-to-back if the mission gets bad enough for Shamir to be engaged directly. They help each other into and out of armor, when they’re on the road. Boost each other up onto horses, wagons, wyverns, and pegasi. Hell, they fix each other’s hair in the mornings and adjust each other’s fancy clothes at formal events. They’ve never been good at keeping a professional distance from each other. 

Shamir has always thought she was the only one suffering in silence about that. Catherine isn’t the type, really. If she feels something, she tells you, whether it’s good or bad. Shamir has always thought that her partner must be oblivious to the tension between them, or else ignoring it because she doesn’t think of Shamir as anything more than a convenient fighting companion. Now, when she accidentally meets Catherine’s wide eyes in this unguarded moment, she discovers she’s been wrong. 

“Shamir?” Catherine’s voice is small now, shaky. Her blue, blue gaze bores into Shamir, and it’s like being stared at by Byleth: piercing, almost invasive. Soul-baring. She remembers another pair of eyes, black instead of blue–so black they’d glint gold in the sunrise, so black that Shamir still catches herself looking for them in pools of ink and in the sky on moonless nights–and for a few breathless moments her heart surges like it did all those years ago. Like it did when she looked at him. 

She tears herself away. “[Hou Yi and the Ten Suns,]” she swears in Dagdan. “[I’m in love with this idiot.]”

“[Love?]” Catherine repeats, and Shamir almost jumps out of her skin. She could’ve sworn Catherine didn’t speak any Dagdan… “Is that the word you just said? [Love]?” 

She starts to leave, gets three steps away and almost out of their little alcove. The pleading urgency in Catherine’s voice stops her. 

“Shamir! Tell me I didn’t hear you wrong, please!”

She looks over her shoulder and sees her partner’s face. There’s shock and fear there, yes, but also a terrible, heartbreaking hope. Shamir closes her eyes, because she can’t look at it. Can’t look at  _ her _ , not while she’s still thinking of her first love. But she can’t leave Catherine there, on the agonizing edge of knowing and not knowing. Not after the battering ram of realization has broken down her own defenses. 

“Yes,” she breathes. “That’s what I said.” 

Catherine’s next inhale is sharp, and Shamir braces herself for the inevitable rejection. Catherine is from Farghus, the land of sexual repression. She was raised under the Church of Seiros. The same one that doesn’t recognize same-sex marriages because they can’t produce children. The same one whose holy text claims they would never “deny the splendours of love,” yet preaches against all love that doesn’t fit their idea of what love should be. Shamir’s had to sit through the sermons. She knows. 

“[I love you],” Catherine says. In Dagdan, which doesn’t make sense, because Catherine doesn’t speak Dagdan, and she can’t be saying those words. She can’t know what she’s saying. There’s no way– 

“[I love you],” she repeats insistently. “Shamir, are you listening to me? I didn’t spend a week getting teased by Anna about my pronunciation for you not to hear it when I say it. [I love you].”

Shamir opens her eyes and faces Catherine properly. The questions clamoring for attention in her head all try to come out of her mouth at once, so the only thing that emerges is “Why did Anna tease you?” 

Catherine throws her hands in the air with an exasperated groan. “Because I went to the only person I know who speaks Dagdan to get her to teach me to say it! And I was really bad at it, at first, okay? Anna says my accent’s still terrible.”

Shamir can feel a smile finally beginning to pull at her mouth. “Say it again, and let me be the judge of that.” 

Catherine blinks at her, then lights up like a Saint Cichol Day parade. She pronounces the words very carefully before going back to Fodlan’s language. “[I love you, Shamir]. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had. Probably the best one I  _ will _ ever have, and I love you. You’re a gift from the Goddess, and I’ll never be able to thank Her enough for giving you to me. Now tell me I didn’t hear you wrong a second ago.” 

Shamir tries to keep her expression reserved, but Catherine’s grin is infectious and she just can’t resist. “You didn’t hear me wrong. I’ve… had feelings for you for a while now. I thought it was just lust, but it isn’t.” 

Catherine grabs her. A joyful laugh bubbles off her lips as she sweeps Shamir into the air, looking at her like she’d hung the stars. Shamir knows, from watching her, that Catherine is very capable of worship. Devotion, loyalty, adoration; she has those in spades. Shamir has never expected to be the most important thing in her life, understands that she’ll always come second to the church and the Archbishop. 

In this moment, though, neither of them cares. Shamir wraps her arms around Catherine’s neck. When their lips meet, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Longing surges through Shamir, and she realizes she’s been wanting this for longer than she’d known. She slides back down to the ground, still pressed close to Catherine’s body, and the sensation of hard muscle and soft cloth between them provides a delicious contrast that Shamir wants to memorize. They kiss again, and it’s too harsh, both of them breathing fast and unable to stop smiling, but it’s perfect. She never wants it to stop. 

The sound of a throat clearing causes both women to freeze. Shamir tries to spring back but Catherine’s hands on her waist keep her locked exactly where she is, and she’s going to have to unpack how  _ that _ makes her feel. Later. They look at the entrance to the alcove and find none other than Claude von Riegan standing there watching them with mirth dancing in his eyes. In a part of the monastery which students aren’t even supposed to be able to access, now that Shamir thinks about it. 

“Good afternoon ladies,” he says smoothly, his smile never faltering. “Let’s all just forget we saw each other, and go on with our lives, shall we?”

“Great idea,” Catherine replies, sounding a little strangled. Shamir can feel the hot blush on her cheeks, and it’s all she can do not to reach for her knives. Claude gives them a jaunty little wave and disappears with a flip of his dumb golden half-cape. 

“Well,” Shamir manages after several frozen seconds. “Would you like to take this somewhere with a locking door?”

“That sounds like a great idea, partner.” Catherine’s grin returns, and she scoops Shamir up into her arms. Shamir emits an undignified squeak, but doesn’t protest further as she is carried bridal-style all the way to Catherine’s room. 


	2. Chapter 2

Catherine reaches out, seeking warmth. Her hand touches something hard. She isn’t really awake, so she just grips on instinct. A thrum of comforting, sleepy heat rolls through her and she sighs. She slips deeper into unconsciousness, the friendly black clutch of dreamless sleep sucking at her. Something moves at her back, but it’s a familiar movement, nothing to alarm her into wakefulness. 

“Catherine,” Shamir’s voice cuts through the darkness like lightning, bright and cold. “Wake up.” A hand shakes her roughly, and Catherine struggles for consciousness. 

“Mmm?” She cracks an eye to find Shamir hovering over her, looking exhausted and thoroughly pissed off. “S’mthing wrong?” 

“Your Lei Gong-blessed relic is keeping me awake,” Shamir hisses. She mutters something else as she rolls away, but Catherine figures it’s probably in Dagdan because it makes absolutely no sense. 

“M’sorry,” Catherine says muzzily, forcing herself to sit up and look at Shamir, who is tugging on her boots with militant efficiency. “Where’re you goin’?”

“Out. If I can’t sleep, I might as well relieve the guard so  _ someone _ can,” she snaps. Catherine isn’t sure what the problem is, but Shamir is clearly upset. She pushes the blankets of her bedroll off her body, for which she needs to let go of Thunderbrand’s hilt. Catherine spares a glance for the blade. Its signature orange glow is muted now, fading even further as she takes her hand away. 

“Wait,” she reaches out for Shamir, trying to stop her from leaving their tent angry. “I’m sorry, come back. Tell me what’s wrong?”

The line of Shamir’s back is tense in the almost complete darkness. It’s barely three nights after the new moon and they’re out in the back-beyond of the Alliance mountains. The Wyvern Moon isn’t a particularly cold month in general, but Catherine’s already missing the warmth of her partner’s body pressed against her own in the night chill. A torch passes outside, one of their men patrolling away his hour of watch. 

Shamir faces her again, but Catherine can’t really see her expression. At this time of night, Shamir’s low voice usually breathes over her skin like a caress. Right now, though, it feels a lot more like a horse brush: harsh and scraping.

“I’ve told you before,” she says impatiently, “I don’t like sleeping with that thing. It makes noise. It glows. It keeps me awake. You shouldn’t sleep with it either.” 

Catherine heaves a sigh. They’ve been romantically involved for a little more than two months, but she’s been hearing Shamir’s complaints about Thunderbrand being in their tent for their entire three or four year partnership. 

“It’s safer if I keep it near me. We don’t want some new recruit taking it for a few swings and turning into a demonic beast on us! Lady Rhea said–”

“I  _ don’t  _ want to talk about Rhea right now,” Shamir snarls. She stands abruptly and stalks towards the tent flap. “I’m leaving. Go back to sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow.” 

“Shamir!” Catherine gets to her knees. “Don’t walk out on me, we’re having a conversation.”

“No,  _ I’m  _ having a conversation. You’re repeating the same useless garbage you’ve been using since we were first partners.” She jerks the tent flap aside and disappears into the night. 

“Talk to me!” Catherine pleads, stumbling to her feet and following her out. She shivers when the brisk air outside the tent bites through her thin sleeping clothes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what else you want me to say!” 

“I don’t want you to  _ say  _ anything!” Shamir rounds on her, anger flashing in her dark eyes. “I want you to  _ change _ . Leave the thrice-damned sword in its sheath, on the other side of the tent, for one night!”

Catherine glances guiltily towards the guard, who is standing by the fire and looking like he’d really rather be anywhere else right now. Her lieutenant sticks his head out of his tent and blinks owlishly at them for a moment before retreating again. 

“Quiet, Shamir. You’ll wake the whole camp!” Catherine makes a placating gesture with both hands, palms out like she’s calming a spooked horse. 

“If I don’t get to sleep, I don’t see why they should,” Shamir retorts without lowering her voice at all. She’s not the loud one between the two partners, but Catherine’s seen her really angry a few times before and knows Shamir can shout with the best of them. 

“We have a mission,” Catherine pleads. “Can this wait until it’s over? I’m sure Athlen will share her tent, we don’t have to have this argument now.”

“No! You can leave it in its sheath or we can talk about it now. It’s my tent as much as yours, and I won’t be kicked out in favor of a sword.” Shamir is already breathing hard from the strain of the dispute, cheeks flushed from the cold night air, eyes digging into Catherine like a pair of flint knives. 

Catherine looks away, stung. “You know I can’t sleep without it,” she says, voice quiet. 

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Shamir presses on, unrelenting. “That sword is destroying you.” 

The words fall on Catherine like hammer blows. She’s abruptly reminded of the way she’d felt when she was young and her parents fought at the dinner table: the inconsolable realization that the two people who were the foundation of her world hated each other. This is similar in a skewed, backwards sort of way. 

Catherine has always based her life on a small number of things. When she was a girl, it had been her parents. When they finally gave up on one another, it had been the church and her own pleasure. During her academy years, it had become Lady Rhea. Then, when she graduated and the church bestowed Thunderbrand on her, the sword itself had become one of her cornerstones. When she’d fallen in love with Shamir, there’d been friction. Shamir doesn’t believe in the Church of Seiros, doesn’t worship Lady Rhea. But it’s been okay, because Shamir is willing to accept the way Catherine feels about the Archbishop. Catherine hadn’t bet on Shamir hating Thunderbrand. 

The world blurs as tears fill her eyes. “I’m sorry,” Catherine tells her sincerely, trying to convey with mere words the universe of emotion swirling in her chest. Her voice is tight when she admits, “I can’t give either of you up.”

Shamir scoffs–disgusted or disinterested, Catherine can’t tell–and turns her back. The note of finality in her voice is more painful than any combat wound. “I’m sorry too. Go back to sleep, Catherine. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” 

“No, wait!” Catherine can’t bear the distance between them any longer. She crosses that distance to wrap her arms around Shamir, feels the shudder run through her partner’s body. Shamir leans into her, tipping her head to examine Catherine’s face. Catherine isn’t sure what she sees there, but whatever it is causes her eyes to finally soften. 

“I’m worried about you,” Shamir tells her gently. 

The saltwater in Catherine’s eyes finally spills over, then. She buries her face in Shamir’s shoulder and cries, relief and adrenaline coursing through her in equal measure. Her body is ready for a fight, responding to her panic at the thought of Shamir really leaving her, but there’s nothing to kill. She can’t take up her sword against this threat to their relationship–somehow, Thunderbrand has become the threat. 

After a few seconds of this, Shamir turns in her grip and embraces her. She cards her callused fingers through Catherine’s hair and murmurs consoling words, telling her it will be alright and to breathe slowly, in and out. In and out. Sobs wrack Catherine’s body, because she can’t imagine life without her relic or her partner. She’s had Thunderbrand longer, but Shamir has become just as essential to her in the years they’ve known each other. First as a friend and occasional drinking companion, then a partner, then a lover. Catherine can’t lose her. 

“I’ll try,” she manages to say. “I’ll try, for you.”

“That’s all I want,” Shamir soothes, stroking her hair and rubbing circles into her shoulders. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Thunderbrand stays in its sheath for the rest of the mission. Catherine uses the rapier Byleth gifted her, even though she feels immensely sluggish. They defeat the violent pillagers who were menacing the local farms with only minimal losses to their battalions, and head home with their heads held high. The smile on Shamir’s face as they ride back to the monastery is worth the tremors in Catherine’s hands and the nausea creeping up her throat. She grips her saddlehorn hard to ground herself, and smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Chinese god of thunder, Lei Gong is responsible for delivering punishments to dishonest, vicious, and wicked humans, as well as for demons who spread evil. He uses a drum to warn the perpetrators of their impending punishment. If they ignore his warning, he will smite them with his vengeful hammer. Lei Gong has an unusual origin story, having hatched from an egg. He is a menacing character who has claws and wings like a dragon and frightening blue skin"


	3. Chapter 3

A lot of things change when Edelgard declares war on the church. 

First, a third of the students disappear from Garreg Mach. The kids whose families are Empire nobility call them home immediately, fearing that they’ll become hostages or be killed outright by an outraged Archbishop. Shamir isn’t in favor of letting them go, but she is overruled by almost everyone else whose advice Rhea asks for. 

Next, the monastery goes from being a peacetime school building which happens to house some military units to being on the front line of a war, which is not a place Shamir had ever wanted to find herself again. She shrugs and accepts it, because she still owes Rhea a debt and hey, Byleth is still around, and she trusts their judgement. Also, Catherine would never leave Rhea’s side at such a perilous moment, even if Shamir was to suggest it. 

Food and information coming out of Empire territory stops like a faucet someone has turned off. Shamir’s informants in the entirety of the region go abruptly silent, and she has to assume they’ve been captured or killed. Writing off that many agents is hard, but she has neither time nor resources to spend searching for them. The Flame Emperor’s army is marching on Garreg Mach and Shamir has her hands full trying to determine their numbers and location with what little she has left. The main body of troops moves like an army should, but smaller units of adept soldiers appear and disappear seemingly at will, harrying whatever units the Church fields in a desperate slowing tactic. 

Edelgard must have a spymaster, and Shamir has a fair guess as to who it is. If she can just locate Hubert, she can bring down Edelgard’s entire information network. Shamir has worked with Hubert a few times. She knows his style. He isn’t the type to delegate; he doesn’t trust people enough. He doesn’t have minions who know his plans and are prepared to enact them in his absence. He is the kind of man who wants to be a spider at the center of an invisible web, pulling strings without anyone the wiser. In short, he isn’t prepared to be taken completely out of the game. 

Shamir’s gotten close a few times. She even sees him silhouetted on the canvas of a tent once. However, any time she seems to have him cornered, he slips away from her. It’s infuriating. Shamir is so fixated on the cat-and-mouse game she’s playing with Hubert that she even forgets to be mad at Catherine for going on a dangerous mission– _ hunting the Death Knight alongside Byleth _ –without even telling her before leaving. She just thanks every benevolent god for her partner’s safe return. 

Then the Empire army attacks. Shamir is standing between a group of terrified Kingdom students and the chaos of the battlefield, unable to get them clear of the fighting entirely but momentarily out of danger. She can see the front lines as Byleth rushes to the aid of the huge, white  _ thing _ that Rhea has turned into. They fire arrows with deadly precision, then cast aside their bow and draw the Sword of the Creator. Take out two more demonic beasts. Turn to face a group of mages who appear out of nowhere at the crest of a hill. Take a blast of dark magic to the face. Stand, for a moment, on the lip of a massive chasm.

Shamir remembers the way Byleth always hated to stand too close to the edge of the monastery walls, how they would always walk rather than ride wyverns, and the way Claude tactfully shut down anyone who tried to tease them about it. She watches the ground crumble beneath them. Sharp eyes pick out the raw emotion on their usually blank face: pure, unadulterated terror.

And Byleth falls. 

There’s no time to mourn. What’s left of the Knights of Seiros retreat in disorder, herding the frightened citizens of Garegg Mach and all the students who stayed. They fall back, and fall back again as the Empire’s armies pursue them relentlessly. At Myrddin, they try to make another stand. Claude desperately calls for aid from Duke Gloucester, but it never arrives. Alois suffers a near-fatal wound and is saved only by Flayn’s incredible gift for white magic. 

Shamir watches the Riegan heir, sees the calculation in his eyes when he looks at Flayn and Seteth. She’s beginning to have her own suspicions since seeing Rhea’s transformation, but Catherine won’t talk about it with her and she doesn’t know Claude well enough to bring it up. She keeps her doubts to herself and dedicates all her energy to keeping the troops moving. 

When Seteth and Flayn lead the ragged Kingdom contingent north into Farghus, Catherine goes with them. Shamir doesn’t try to fight her. She really doesn’t have the energy to argue about how important finding Rhea is. They kiss and promise to see each other again, but one of the knights has to stay with Alois and the Alliance forces, and it shouldn’t be someone with obvious ties to Rhea. Shamir is the only choice. 

She throws herself into her work, trying to distract herself from the gnawing worry of watching Catherine ride away. Almost all of the Kingdom's students are more comfortable in a saddle than out of one and can be trusted to keep themselves upright, even wounded and exhausted. The Alliance column doesn’t have that luxury, and so have been creeping along at the pace of their slowest walker. Shamir haggles with farmers for use of horses and wagons, helps inexperienced clergy set up tents in the cold spring rain, and forages for the herbs their healers desperately need. 

It is on the fifth day out from Myrddin that the last exhausted stragglers from Garegg Mach reach the safety of Goneril territory. They would’ve taken a shorter route to Derdriu, through Gloucester lands, but Claude and Shamir had agreed that Gloucester was the most likely of the Alliance houses to be directly hostile. East along the river, then north into Ordelia and finally Goneril. Shamir collapses across a cot in the large town they’re using as a marshalling point, grateful for something other than the hard ground beneath her aching body. She’s been on harder marches, but right now she really can’t remember when.

Before she can pass out for a few hours of well-deserved sleep, there’s a rap at her door. For a long moment, she genuinely considers ignoring it. Then her sense of responsibility kicks her in the ribs and she drags herself upright with a groan. 

“Who’s there?” Shamir calls to the closed door. 

“It’s me,” a distinctively high pitched voice says. 

“Oh, Lysithea. What do you need?”

“Do you have a moment to talk?” 

Shamir would really rather not, but whatever Lysithea needs might be important, so she heaves a sigh and gets up to unbar the door. The small girl on the other side has a tray heaped with pastries and a tea set, which instantly dispels some of Shamir’s bad mood. She realizes she’s ravenous, so she lets Lysithea in. They set the tray on the floor and sit down next to it, leaning back against the bed. Shamir realizes Lysithea is just as tired as she is, if not more so. There are heavy bags under her eyes, stark against her pale skin, and her usually pristine white hair is grimy and listless. 

“So, what did you need me for?” Shamir inquires, munching on a pastry while Lysithea pours them each a cup of tea. Lysithea’s movements are as deliberate as ever, but the telltale caffeine tremors in her hands rattle the porcelain and give her away. 

“I’m looking into the effects of relics on their wielders over time, and Catherine is the only person I know who’s had one for more than a year or so. Since she’s not here, you’re my next best resource.” Lysithea sips her tea, eyes honing in on Shamir’s face with characteristic focus. It’s unsettling to be looked at with such intensity, but after working with Byleth for six months, nothing bothers Shamir. 

“In the middle of running for your life, you’re doing research?” Shamir can’t help the note of incredulity in her voice. 

Lysithea bristles. “If we’re going to be involved in a war, or at the very least involved in staying  _ out _ of a war, we’ll need to know as much as we can about the most powerful weapons at our disposal. Will you help me, or not?”

Shamir holds up a hand to calm her down. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t, I’m just surprised at your dedication. How can I help?”

“Well,” Lysithea produces a diptych from some inner pocket of her robes. “First, you can tell me what the effects of long-term exposure to a relic look like from the outside. You’ve known Catherine for four or five years–”

The echo of an argument back in the Red Wolf Moon sounds in Shamir’s mind. “Four. She came to the monastery four years ago.” 

Lysithea makes a note. “Yes, you’ve known her for four years. How has she changed in that time, in regards to her relic? Have her actions or personality changed?” 

Shamir thinks about it. When they’d first known each other, Catherine had already been wielding Thunderbrand for five years. Shamir hadn’t been particularly interested in Lady Rhea’s most devoted knight at first, beyond listening to her brag and concluding she was probably all talk and no actual skill. The bragging certainly hadn’t gotten better over the years, but what had changed?

“She fights differently without it,” Shamir finally says. “Slower, and not just because she doesn’t have its speed. Her reactions aren’t as fast as they used to be, when she’s using a regular sword. Her reflexes in training have gotten worse.” Lysithea is busily scratching notes into her diptych as Shamir talks. “She gets upset when she hasn’t had a chance to use it in a while. Restless and shaky. Also, she didn’t sleep with it when we were first partners. It was in the same tent as us, but sheathed. Now, she has to keep a hand on it or she can’t sleep at all.”

“Hm,” Lysithea looks concerned. “And you think this is making her other symptoms worse? Sleeping with it?”

“Yes. Her reflexes have deteriorated much faster since she started doing that. She gets angry and defensive if I bring it up.” Shamir needs to stop talking, or she knows she’s going to pour out all her frustration and worry into Lysithea’s ears. That isn’t what the mage asked for, though, so she stops herself. 

“Hm,” the other woman says again, staring intently at her notes. “Have you tried to talk to her about your concerns often? I need to know what kind of sample size I’m working with here.”

“Almost once a month since we were first partners,” Shamir answers bitterly, thinking of all the fruitless, circular arguments. “She’ll never give it up. Even if Rhea asked her to, I don’t think she would.” 

Lysithea’s blood-pink eyes widen and she looks up from her diptych. “Really? I didn’t know there was anything Catherine wouldn’t do for Lady Rhea.”

“I don’t know for sure, it’s never come up.” She shakes her head. “Is any of that helpful?”

“Very!” Lysithea looks, though she’d hate the comparison, like a kid in a candy shop. She’s looking at her notes like they hold the answers to all her questions, and for all Shamir knows, they might. Suddenly curious, she leans over to look. Lysithea’s handwriting is neat and small, the letters perfectly formed in the way only a noble’s can be. No one who works for a living has the time or inclination to worry about their handwriting. 

The notes are still largely unintelligible. She can see the names Friekugel, Thunderbrand, and Thyrsus written out, but otherwise Lysithea is using some kind of shorthand that doesn’t make any sense to Shamir. The mage notices her interest, but pops another pastry into her mouth before asking about it. 

“Are you curious about the relics too?”

Shamir shrugs. “They’ve never been something I could use, but sure. I’ve wondered before.” Often, when considering Catherine’s relationship with Thunderbrand. 

“Well, it seems they all have some things in common, though not very many. They all mess up their users in some way, and it always gets worse the longer it goes on. That makes sense, most things that are powerful will hurt you if you overuse them.” She looks down at her own hands wryly. Once as pale and flawless as the rest of her, the fingers are now blackened and scarred. They’re not as damaged as Hubert’s are, under his gloves, but if she keeps using dark magic they’ll be there someday. 

“Also, there’s always a consequence for using them too much at a time,” Lysithea continues. “For instance, if I overuse Thyrsus I get a migraine headache and throw up. If Lorenz does it, he has trouble breathing and his hands start to cramp. If Hilda fights with Friekugel too much, it burns her hands and gives her nightmares. Once, it even knocked her out in the middle of a battle. Her wyvern saved her life, that time. That was the week the professor took it away from her, in case you’re curious. So perhaps the effects amplify over time. Maybe there are acute and chronic overuse symptoms…” She trails off, muttering to herself and writing in her diptych.

Shamir eats another pastry, leaving the last one for her companion, and finishes her tea. Her worry over leaving Catherine alone with Thunderbrand churns in her gut, but there’s nothing she can do about it now. With food in her stomach, even if it’s only sugary confections, she’s even more tired. Lysithea seems to notice her drooping eyelids because she snatches the last snack and stands. 

“Well, thank you for the help, Shamir. I appreciate your honesty. I’ll let you rest now.” 

“Thank you for the food,” Shamir nods politely. Lysithea brushes the crumbs off her dress and heads for the door. “Hey, Lysithea?” 

She glances back, inquiring. 

“Get some sleep, okay?”

Lysithea smiles. “I will. Thank you, professor.”

They both freeze for a moment when she realizes what she’d said. Lysithea’s paleness means that a blush shows up very brightly on her face. “I meant Shamir! I didn’t– um, that is–” 

“It’s alright.” Shamir waves a tired hand, dismissing the mistake. Then, because she’s so exhausted, says something she wouldn’t have under other circumstances. She allows herself a moment of vulnerability. 

“I miss them too."


	4. Chapter 4

Byleth returns to them on the eve of the millennium festival. Catherine hears about it a week or so later when a messenger on a lathered horse appears at the gates of the church where she and Shamir are staying. The girl swings down and breathlessly demands to see the knight commander. Catherine is in a foul mood and would like to send her packing without hearing her out, but then she spots the symbol emblazoned on her messenger pouch. The official heraldry of the Church of Seiros with a Crest of Cichol beneath it: Seteth’s personal sigil. 

“Give me your message. I’m Thunder Catherine.”

The girl beams at her. “Oh, good. This is the fifth church I’ve visited this morning. The message is this: Seteth says to bring as many knights as you can find and come back to Garegg Mach. He said to tell you ‘the professor is alive’ and that you’d know what that meant.” She waits expectantly, clearly hoping for an explanation. 

A thrill shoots through Catherine, and she puts a hand on her sword hilt reflexively. Every hair on her body stands on end. She swings around and starts shouting orders, dismissing the girl by walking briskly away. “Shamir! We’re going back to the monastery!”

“You don’t have to yell,” Shamir informs her mildly. Catherine jumps and looks around, finds her partner leaning against the wall by the gate, toying with a knife. “I heard.”

“Goddess, Shamir. Make some noise when you move, will you?” She complains. “You almost scared the life out of me. So, you heard? Let’s get moving then!” 

They round up their little troop of soldiers and head out in record time, driven by Catherine’s excited exhortations. They arrive at the ruin of Garegg Mach before sunset that day, pushing themselves to the limit for speed and hardly stopping the whole way. The other knights are exhausted but Catherine is bursting with energy, riding high on the hopes that if Byleth is back, Lady Rhea won’t be far behind.

Catherine pushes open the huge, creaking doors to the entrance hall and finds it echoing and empty. The dining hall is dusty and disused, the courtyard overrun with weeds, and there’s rubble everywhere. The state of the monastery begins to dampen Catherine’s high spirits, but then she rounds the corner of an overgrown hedge and runs into Byleth themself. They look startled to see her, but she simply wraps them in a bear hug. 

“Cath- mmph!” 

“We thought you were dead! Everyone’s been searching, where have you  _ been _ for five years?” Catherine demands, still crushing the professor against her chest. Byleth’s hands push ineffectively at her shoulders, apparently trying to dissuade Catherine from embracing them with quite so much enthusiasm. 

They mutter something unintelligible from the vicinity of her shoulder, where their face is pressed. Catherine loosens her arms slightly, unable to fight the conviction that if she lets go entirely, they might vanish into thin air again. 

Byleth’s irritated expression hasn’t gotten Catherine to back down yet, but it doesn’t stop them from trying. “I  _ said _ , I can’t answer you if I can't breathe.” 

“Oh, sorry!” Catherine laughs. “It’s just that I can barely believe you’re actually here!” 

“Well, I am, and now I’m here and  _ bruised  _ because your armor is digging into my entire body,” they remark drily. Catherine releases them, having convinced herself by tactile evidence that they are, in fact, alive and well. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes again, scratching the back of her head and grinning guilelessly. Then she asks the question she most wants answered. “Is Lady Rhea with you?”

Byleth’s face goes back to its strange neutrality, and they shake their head. “No. I fell before she turned human again, so I’m not sure what happened to her either.”

“What, and you haven’t been looking for her? When I heard you were back, I thought you must’ve been in the Empire searching for Lady Rhea, which is why nobody had heard from you.” This is as far as Catherine’s thoughts had gone, because Shamir still couldn’t get any information out of the Empire, so it’s logically the only place Byleth could’ve been for five years. That’s the only place the Church wouldn’t have known they were alive. 

“No, I’ve been…” they hesitate, and Catherine suddenly feels as if she knows what they’ll look like when they’re eighty. Their eyes are dark, deep, and haunted. “I think I’ve been asleep, at the bottom of that gorge. I woke up a week ago, just in time for the millennium festival.”

Catherine stares at them, shocked. She knows her mouth is open and Shamir would tease her for it, but that claim is inconceivable. She can’t imagine sleeping for more than six or so hours a night. Lately, it’s been more like four. Sleeping for five years is insane. It has to be a joke. “You’re kidding, right? That’s not very funny, Professor.” 

“I’m completely serious,” Byleth says firmly, face as unreadable as ever. Before Catherine can interrogate them further, Cyril comes looking for them. He greets Catherine cheerfully but wants to know where Shamir is, and the welcome back gathering starts to expand. They retrieve Shamir from the entrance hall, Byleth produces Seteth and Flayn, and all eight members of the Golden Deer house arrive from various corners of the monastery. 

It’s clear that Raphael and Leonie have been working on moving rubble from the masonry and dirt coating them from head to toe, and most of the rest are similarly covered in dust and cobwebs. Apparently, they’ve been steadily making the monastery livable again, starting with the sleeping chambers and working outwards. 

Seteth prevents the reunion from turning into a proper party just by existing, but Byleth does their best by declaring the day’s work over and suggesting that it’s time to eat. Everyone is in a festival mood as they head back towards the space they’ve cleared out on the second floor of the knights’ barracks. There’s a fire in the fireplace, and Leonie manages to feed all of them with what she can cook over the open flame. 

There is talk and laughter, good food and good memories, and being back among these people gives Catherine hope that the world might’ve just taken the first steps on the road to recovery. That is, until it comes time to bank the fire and bed down for the night. Then the nagging frustration that’s been plaguing her returns in full force. 

Namely: Shamir refuses to sleep next to her anymore. 

It’s embarrassing enough when they’re out on patrol with their men, who honestly couldn’t care less about their personal lives, but the people in this room  _ notice _ . Catherine sits down on one of the reclaimed bedrolls the Golden Deer have been using instead of the decaying cots pushed up against one wall, and pats the space beside her invitingly. Shamir shakes her head and chooses a place three or four bedrolls away. 

Leonie takes the spot next to Catherine, looking puzzled. “What’s with that? Did something happen?” She asks

Catherine glares at Shamir’s back, hoping her partner can feel it. “No. She’s being unreasonable.”

“Ooh boy,” Leonie stands back up. “Not getting in the middle of that,” she explains simply, and heads off to sleep between Byleth and Lorenz. 

Shamir shoots Catherine an irritated look over her shoulder, but Catherine won’t budge. Her partner  _ is _ being unreasonable. She had cut back on using Thunderbrand for a while when Shamir asked. But then the war broke out, and she was using the sword every day for a few moons, and Lady Rhea was missing and Byleth was dead and Shamir was in the Alliance while Catherine was all the way north in Fhirdiad, and she needed the comfort of  _ something _ to fall asleep at night. What did Shamir expect?

It isn’t a compulsion. If Catherine really wanted to, she could put Thunderbrand down and never take it up again. She knows she has the willpower to do it, and she will, when Lady Rhea and Shamir are both really safe. The day the war ends and the people she loves are finally out of danger, she’ll hang the sword up in the great hall at Castle Charon and let it collect dust for the rest of her life. For now, she needs her relic to protect the people she cares about. It makes her faster, stronger, less prone to exhaustion. Sure, if she overdoes it she runs the risk of getting burned, but Thunderbrand would never hurt her so badly that she can’t fight. 

Honestly, she doesn’t understand why Shamir is being so stubborn about this. She said all she wanted was for Catherine to try, and Catherine did that. She’s proved she can stop whenever she wants to. What more does her partner want from her? It’s ridiculous to demand that Thunder Catherine should give up her relic in the middle of a war. It’s like cutting off your right hand before heading into battle: almost suicidal. Not even Seteth, who has the world’s biggest stick up his ass when it comes to people overusing their power, has ever suggested Catherine shouldn’t be sleeping with Thunderbrand. Lady Rhea entrusted the weapon to her, who was Shamir to demand she part with it?

Catherine emits an angry huff and lies down with her back to Shamir. She draws her sword and lays it beside her, then covers herself and the blade with her blanket. Under the covers and in her sleeping clothes, the warmth it puts off any time she touches it is immensely comforting. She wraps one hand around the hilt and curls around her relic, feeling the thrum of its magic begin to pulse through her. Somehow, instead of flooding Catherine with energy like it would on the battlefield, it relaxes her enough that she can drift off. 

She dreams of Shamir, of the days early in their relationship when the two of them were so close. The times when they said “I love you” every day and held each other every night. The wild passion of their first time. The way they’d seemed to work together even more perfectly after admitting their feelings. The praise from Lady Rhea, when they’d come back from fantastically successful missions. Holding hands. Kissing. Laughing, and watching Shamir’s eyes dance. 

The dream shifts.

The warmth in her bed isn’t another soft body, it’s the hard planes of a sword. Instead of a bow-callused hand in hers, it’s Thunderbrand’s hilt. The thrill of praise is directed at her alone, her and her blade, which would never desert her or make unreasonable demands. Rhea is looking at her with a smile on her face and taking her into her arms. Catherine is lying on the ground with Thunderbrand in one hand, and Rhea is lifting her easily, singing to her, healing her again. 

Wait, why does she need healing?

The pain hits her then. She knows from experience that this feeling is from electricity burns arcing up her arms and spiderwebbing across her back, her stomach, her chest. It hurts like nothing she’s ever felt before, sharp and aching at the same time, and somehow it feels  _ incredible _ . Thunderbrand’s energy pulses through her, transmuting the pain into something beautiful. Lady Rhea’s voice soothes her, and as Catherine’s vision goes black she realizes that there is nowhere in the world she would rather be. She knows she’s saved Lady Rhea, freed her from captivity and ended the war, and everything is going to be okay again. 

She slips away with a smile on her lips. 


	5. Chapter 5

Shamir is a master of stealth. She has spent all of her adult life working as a specialist mercenary, which is industry speak for “assassin”. She can creep into and out of any room in the monastery–with the possible exception of Byleth’s–without anyone being the wiser. So when, during the Garland Moon, she makes the decision to take Thunderbrand while Catherine is sleeping, she’s confident in her ability to carry out her plan. 

Creeping into the room that once had been  _ theirs _ is a little painful, but it’s nothing Shamir can’t repress. She moves silently over the ancient, creaking floorboards, bare feet seeking out the places she knows won’t make any noise. Her target is under the covers, cradled in Catherine’s arms like a lover. 

She refuses to think,  _ like I should be _ . 

Carefully, over the dangerous place near Shamir’s side of the bed where the wood has started to splinter. Light fingers lift the summer-weight blanket which is all that covers Catherine’s body. The old desire flares inside Shamir when she looks down at her partner. Her face is relaxed, beautiful in the moonlight. It’s been too long since she’s had the chance to see Catherine this calm. There’s a tiny smile on her lips, like she’s having a good dream. The kind of dream that usually resulted in the two of them rolling around in bed before getting up for the day. 

She forces herself to focus, not to get caught up in memories. The sword is held loosely, one of Catherine’s arms flung across it on the mattress beside herself. That’s good. Shamir produces the old replica Caspar used to use for training, readying it to slip into place. It’s already warm from being carried across her back, so the temperature difference hopefully won’t be an issue. She reaches for the hilt of the relic. 

“ _ Shamir,” _ someone whispers. She flinches. It’s not Catherine. Shamir is looking directly at Catherine’s face when it happens, and her mouth hasn’t moved. She turns slowly, examining the room. No one is here. Excellent night vision and the full moon streaming in through the open window ensure that no creature in the tiny dorm could escape Shamir’s notice. 

“ _ Shamir _ ,” the voice beckons again, and she could swear she feels the ghost of a breath on the back of her neck. She turns back towards the bed. Catherine is still dead asleep, unmoved. “ _ Shamir, _ ” this time the whisperer lingers on the last syllable of her name, dragging it out with a sing-song tone. 

This is creepy. She needs to complete her mission and get the hell back into her own bed before anything gets weirder. She reaches for Thunderbrand again.

“ _ Yessss, _ ” the voice breathes, sibilant and disturbing. She wraps one hand around the hilt. Suddenly the voice is loud in her ears, triumphant. “ _ Yes! We have waited for you. Take the blade, take your revenge on the creatures who took your love from you. We will be your companion, we will bring you victory. With us, you can feel alive again.” _

Shamir stumbles back from the bed, not caring if the floor creaks but managing to hold on to the replica sword. She hits the far wall, panting hard, eyes blown wide, heart thudding in her chest with the thrill of combat. Catherine mumbles and rolls over, cuddling the sword close. The damn thing had just spoken to her. It spoke to her and what’s worse, she  _ believed it _ . Years of resentment, memories she’d thought buried of nobles’ rudeness, brushing her off because she was nobody, a Dagdan mercenary bitch with no status to speak of. Years of Rhea issuing orders and expecting them to be followed without question. Years of mourning the death of her first love, the destruction of so much of her country, and hating not just the Empire but all of Fodlan which stood idly by while her people were slaughtered. The vicarious rage on behalf of Duscurr. The casual way Rhea hurts Catherine, letting her wield this sword and sending her to kill her friends. 

Shamir sees a vision of herself, Thunderbrand in hand, righting those wrongs, and it’s beautiful. Then she shakes her head to clear it, because it’s also  _ impossible _ . She doesn’t have a crest at all, much less a crest of Charon, and she doesn’t even use a sword in the first place. She understands what to do with one, but basic competence will not get her the glorious victory the thrice-damned thing promises. But she  _ wants  _ it. 

_ Shit _ .

Alright, change of plans. Shamir casts about and finds a loose washcloth. If she can’t touch it directly without getting delusions of grandeur, maybe she can handle it with something else in the way. Softly, she makes her way around the bed and reaches for the sword again. Touching the hilt doesn’t fill her head with smoke this time, and she can ignore that it’s still whispering her name. She pulls it out of Catherine’s hands and quickly replaces it with Caspar’s replica. Tucking Thunderbrand into the makeshift sling on her back is a matter of moments, and Shamir is out the window and onto the roof again before she has time to dwell on anything else. 

She climbs over the eaves of the knight’s quarters and up onto the roof. At the peak of this, there is a cupola which once had beautiful stained glass windows. Now, the shards of colored glass are scattered inside the space, a hazard to Shamir’s bare feet. She hops lightly over the sill and into the little building, which she’s fairly certain no one else in the monastery has ever given a second thought. Inside, there is a dusty old canvas tarp that’s been there since before the war began. Beneath it is a broken longbow, a hunk of obsidian, and a heavy wooden box holding a portrait and a pair of rings.

Very delicately, Shamir unslings Thunderbrand. It stopped glowing the moment it was out of Catherine’s hands, but she still doesn’t touch the strange weapon directly. She nestles it down amidst the only things she has left from her homeland, and covers it all back up with the tarp. Finally, she breathes easily again.

“[Xiwangmu and the Jade Emperor,]” she swears with feeling. “[What in the name of every dark god is going  _ on _ in Fodlan?]” 

Shamir shakes her head and climbs to her feet. She has to get back to her room and try to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be gruesome. 

The next morning, all hell breaks loose. 

Shamir is awoken by the sound of someone shouting, running feet in the hallway outside her door, and the crack of thunder. A flash of lighting heralds another window-shaking boom, and Shamir jolts upright. She pulls on her trousers and opens the door, nearly hitting another knight in the face as he rushes past. 

“Alois! What’s going on?”

He jogs backwards for a moment to tell her, “I’m not sure, but Seteth is breathing fire about it. He just burst into our morning strategy meeting looking like death itself!” Then he turns around again and keeps running down the hall. Adjusting this report to allow for Alois’s tendency to be dramatic: Seteth’s pissed about something. Shamir has a fair guess as to what it is. She takes a deep breath and grabs her jacket. Time to face the music. 

Asking around provides her with the information that Seteth, Byleth, and the rest of the Garegg Mach staff are in the cathedral. Shamir does not enjoy the sprint across the bridge in the driving rain. Why in the name of Fodlan’s Goddess did they choose the crumbling ruin of the cathedral for this meeting? She can appreciate ruins for the way they symbolize impermanence, but this is taking it a bit far in her opinion. Risking her neck out on a bridge in the middle of a lightning storm is not her idea of a good way to relieve stress. 

She gets her answer when she reaches the echoing chamber and finds a small group of equally soaked people arguing. It’s not her colleagues, however, that catch her eye. It’s her partner, pacing up and down in front of the rubble that used to be the altar. Byleth is watching her, standing just outside the reach of the rain, teal eyes tracking the restless movement. Catherine isn’t dressed, she’s standing in the weather pouring in through the hole in the roof wearing nothing but a thin nightshift, and she’s talking to… someone. Herself, Byleth, or the Goddess, Shamir isn’t sure. 

When she pushes the huge doors to the cathedral closed behind her, Seteth looks up and beckons. Shamir approaches the group, which seems to be engaged in heated discussion about what to do. 

“I still say this is too much of a shock to her system!” Hanneman is arguing. “We must find the relic and return it to her, or we risk a complete meltdown!”

“Oh, and what she was doing before  _ wasn’t _ a complete meltdown?” Manuela shoots back. “In my medical opinion, this is the best thing that could’ve happened to her. There’d be no weaning her off of it otherwise. Furthermore, if the blade has gone silent, perhaps it’s a blessing from the Goddess, and we shouldn’t be meddling!”

“You? Objecting to meddling? I never thought I’d see the day,” Hanneman snaps. 

Seteth rubs the space between his eyebrows and holds up a hand to stop their wrangling. They fall silent at the gesture. “Shamir. Catherine claims that Thunderbrand has stopped responding to her, and is reacting very poorly. She won’t let any of us near the weapon to investigate. Do you think you can calm her down?”

“I can try,” Shamir says simply. It looks like they haven’t reached the same conclusion she has, so she won’t tell them what happened to the sword yet. She hadn’t expected Catherine to believe the replica was real. Her partner must be even farther gone than Shamir had known. 

“Please do. Even the professor was unable to approach her. Perhaps you will have better luck.” Seteth bestows his blessing and Shamir leaves the group. They all watch her make her way across the cathedral, stepping into the rain again. Byleth pats her on the shoulder in an attempt at encouragement as she passes, which she honestly appreciates. An audience isn’t going to make this conversation any easier to have. 

“Catherine?”

Catherine turns wild eyes on Shamir, and for a moment she’s worried Catherine might do something violent. Her pupils are tiny, black spots swallowed by blue. 

Then she gasps Shamir’s name and collapses into her arms. “You have to help! I don’t know what I did wrong, but Thunderbrand doesn’t react when I touch it. Please, I don’t know how to make it right again.” She’s pleading, desperation written plain across her face. 

Shamir steels herself, clutching her resolve like a lifeline against the tug of Catherine’s feelings. “Show me.”

Catherine regains her feet and drags Shamir a few steps to the pile of stonework that’s fallen from the ceiling and buried the altar. Sure enough, there’s the replica Thunderbrand, lying on a relatively flat piece of rubble and looking pathetic. 

“See?” Catherine picks it up. Nothing happens, because it’s a wooden training weapon modeled to look like her relic. She looks at Shamir, visibly shaken that it isn’t responding. 

Shamir very gently reaches out and turns Catherine’s face. “Look at it,” she says.

“I  _ have _ !” The despair in Catherine’s voice nearly breaks Shamir’s will. 

“Look closer,” she insists. “Look, it’s made of wood. It’s not Thunderbrand.” 

There’s another flash of lightning and peal of thunder while Catherine’s eyes finally, finally, focus on the weapon in her hand. She takes in the stillness, the color, the texture, the weight of it. The panic subsides and her shoulders relax. Shamir can actually watch it seep out of her partner, one muscle at a time. The wooden blade clatters to the floor, and Shamir’s reflexes are quick enough that she catches Catherine before she does the same. 

“It’s alright,” Shamir tells her, because she can’t think of anything else to say. 

“Thought the Goddess was punishing me. I was so scared, Miri.” Catherine’s voice is tiny, and the nickname rolls off her lips to remind Shamir of the closeness they’d once shared. There had been a time when holding Catherine like this had been one of her favorite things in the world. A time when it was a once-a-week occurrence, hauling Catherine home from whatever bar she’d been carousing in, and she hadn’t even minded.

“I know, but it’s alright.” She can hear the lie in her own voice, hopes Catherine will miss it. “Your Goddess isn’t mad at you, it’s alright.” She half-carries her sodden partner out of the rain and sets her down on one of the miraculously preserved pews. Byleth materializes at her elbow to help with this process, but the rest hang back, unsure of whether it’s safe to approach. Catherine curls in on herself once she’s seated, releasing both Shamir and Byleth. They join the other faculty members.

“What is it?” Seteth inquires when Shamir is once again within earshot. 

“That wooden replica Caspar used to train with,” she reports faithfully. Sticking to the truth as much as possible is the key to a good lie. “She thought it was the actual relic.”

Manuela hums disapproval. “That’s not a good sign. Where could she have come across that old thing, I wonder?”

“It doesn’t matter about the replica,” Hanneman says. “What matters is the location of Thunderbrand! Has it been stolen? If so, by whom, and how? If not, where is it, and most of all, how can we locate it?”

“All questions best discussed elsewhere,” Seteth says firmly. “Shamir, profesor, if you would be so kind as to relocate Catherine to the infirmary. Manuela, please go with them. Hanneman, Alois, search Catherine’s room and the training grounds for her relic. Then, let us seek dry clothing and meet back in my office. Half an hour?”

Everyone nods and sets about their various tasks, efficient now that they have clear direction. Shamir and Byleth return to Catherine and haul her to her feet. Now that her initial panic has worn off she’s largely unresponsive, but she goes with them easily enough. Manuela peppers Shamir with questions the whole way back to the infirmary, asking about Catherine’s diet, sleep habits, and training regimen. Shamir answers as accurately as she can, but is painfully aware that her information is nearly two full months out of date. Since they returned to the monastery, Catherine has barely spoken to her. Refusing her invitation that first night was apparently the last straw, and her partner has been strange and distant. 

Manuela seems to realize how uncomfortable Shamir is and does her best to phrase her questions delicately, but there are things she needs to know. Byleth actually answers more than half of them. They’ve always been worryingly observant, but Shamir is always startled when presented with evidence of how much the professor watches everyone. They tell Manuela that Catherine has been sleeping about three hours a night, eating less than she should, and taking more unnecessary risks than usual on the battlefield. Shamir is ashamed of herself, but she’d thought the recklessness was a result of the trouble in their relationship. She should’ve known it was the damn sword. 

When they finally reach the infirmary, they dry Catherine off and dress her in a clean robe. Manuela coaxes her into drinking some warm tea, and they slip her into one of the beds. She doesn’t protest, just stares blankly up at the ceiling. It creeps Shamir out, to see her usually boisterous partner so vacant. She leaves as soon as she can. 

In her own room, she changes clothes and roughly rubs her hair dry. She probably has a few more minutes before she has to start towards Seteth’s office, so she sits on her bed. It’s times like this when she wishes she’d paid more attention to her mother as a child, when she insisted Shamir learn to meditate. The Dagdan religion values quiet self-reflection, and views meditation as a way to open oneself up to the will of the gods and the ancestor spirits. She’d never really believed in any of that stuff, before Byleth. These days, she’s sure there’s  _ something _ out there more powerful than any human, but she’s not so sure that it’s the benevolent protector the Church of Seiros likes to describe. 

Regardless of what she believes, Shamir really wants some guidance right now. She misses her first love with a fierce longing, in this moment. His calm eyes, his warm arms, the way he always seemed to know just what to do. Shamir dashes tears from her eyes with the back of one hand. There’s no time for that. She has to be strong. Mercenaries can’t afford weaknesses. Catherine can’t afford for Shamir to falter now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "One of the most important and popular figures in Chinese mythology, the Jade Emperor (玉皇) is the supreme ruler of Heaven and the first emperor of China. Despite his vast power, the Jade Emperor’s most prominent traits are his benevolence, fairness, and mercy. During the New Year, the Jade Emperor is said to judge the character of each individual over the past year and punish or reward them accordingly."  
> "One of the most powerful goddesses in the Chinese pantheon, Xiwangmu (西王母), or Queen Mother of the West, is an ancient deity that holds power over life and death. As the wife of the Jade Emperor, Xiwangmu tends to the Peaches of Immortality and serves as a guardian to all Daoist women. She also played a key role in giving human emperors the Mandate of Heaven."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is a rather poorly described seizure in this chapter, as well as some unpleasant withdrawal symptoms. If that's not something you're comfortable with, I'd advise avoiding it. Thanks!

Catherine is back on her feet in two days. This is not to say that she’s back to her old self. She looks scared and a little lost, anytime she’s not grinning and pretending to be okay. When anyone speaks to her, it takes her a few seconds longer than it should to respond. She doesn’t jump at loud noises. The first time she tries to spar, Leonie puts her down  _ hard _ in less than six seconds. Byleth refuses to take her out when they go on missions. Manuela fusses over her. Seteth can’t look directly at her for very long. Flayn avoids her as much as possible. Lysithea digs through the library like a woman possessed, looking for answers. Hanneman searches the monastery from top to bottom, looking for Thunderbrand. 

Catherine seems to struggle with everyday tasks. She shakes all the time. She sweats through all of her clothes. She doesn’t eat. Her skin is pale, her eyes are dilated, and she sleeps twelve or more hours a night. Every now and then, she looks into space like she’s seeing something that isn’t really there. 

Shamir notices these things because she’s watching, hanging around the periphery of her partner’s life and wrestling with her own conscience. She can fix Catherine’s suffering. She can have her old partner back. Could’ve had her all this time, if she would just give in and let her have the sword. Shamir knows where it is, and could end all of this at any time. The woman she loves is falling apart in front of her eyes, and it’s her fault. Does she have the right to condemn her partner to this living half-death? Can she watch Catherine fade away and dwindle, a lifelong warrior condemned to die in bed? Is it her place to come between Catherine and her faith, her Goddess-given gift of combat? Is any of this her decision to make?

Logically, she understands that Thunderbrand will get Catherine killed. She understands even better since touching the thing. It is vengeful, violent, and ultimately evil. It will corrupt and destroy anyone who uses it. But it’s hard to hold on to logic when she sees Catherine retching behind the knight’s hall, stomach too empty for anything to come up. It’s hard to hold on to logic while she watches the way Catherine’s hand clenches around nothing at night, the way she tosses and turns and whimpers. It’s hard, when Catherine comes to her door on the third night, cries in her arms, and admits she’s just been standing on the bridge between the monastery and the cathedral, trying to work up the courage to throw herself off. 

On the fifth day, Shamir breaks. 

She wakes up with Catherine’s arms around her. For a single, blissful moment, the sun shines gently through the window, the birds chirp a morning song, and there is nothing wrong in the world. Then Catherine shivers. 

Shamir realizes her back is soaked with sweat where Catherine is pressed against her. She sits bolt upright, heedless of the way it jostles her partner, and presses the back of her hand to her forehead. Catherine is burning up. She opens unfocused blue eyes and smiles weakly at Shamir. 

“G’mornin,” she mumbles. “Where are we…?”

“My room. You came back with me last night, remember?” It’s worrying that she’s forgetting recent events, but not as worrying as the high fever. 

“Come on, we have to get you to Manuela.” Shamir gets up and pulls on her pants. Not bothering with more than that, she turns back to the bed prepared to carry Catherine to the infirmary if she has to. She’s not prepared to see Catherine suddenly arch upwards, as if all the muscles in her body are contracting at once. She collapses back to the bed, but her limbs continue to jerk spasmodically. Her eyes are rolled back, expression vacant. 

Shamir fights off panic and rushes for the door. She clearly can’t bring Catherine to the infirmary, so she’ll have to do it the other way around. She sprints down the hallway and pounds on Manuela’s door. 

“Manuela! It’s Catherine!”

She appears in seconds, but it feels like hours to Shamir. They race back to the room where Catherine is still having whatever fit she’s fallen into. Shamir can only watch as Manuela flips Catherine onto her side and struggles to hold her there. A spell glows to life, but nothing changes. Manuela swears colorfully, then calls up more magic. 

_ “You’d think the Goddess would refuse to help someone who just said that about Her mother… I know I would. There’s a new area of research for Lysithea: the effects of blasphemy on white magic,” _ the part of Shamir’s mind that is completely panicked gibbers uselessly. She clamps her teeth together, preventing the thought from coming out of her mouth. She needs to do something useful, not just stand here wringing her hands. 

“I’ll get Flayn,” she suggests. Manuela doesn’t respond, so Shamir runs for the second closest medic. She almost mows down a drowsy Seteth on her way to Flayn’s room, but she returns with more help. Manuela issues brisk orders that Shamir can barely understand. Flayn, presented with a crisis, immediately begins doing what she can. The two best healers Shamir knows are working their magic. Now all she can do is wait. 

Well, not  _ all _ . 

She curses herself. She curses Catherine’s stubbornness, Rhea’s disregard, and her own inadequacy. She curses the Goddess Herself for giving such warped and dangerous gifts to the people of Fodlan. Then she goes to Catherine’s room and climbs out the window. Up to the cupola, then the precarious trip down with one hand occupied by the canvas-wrapped weapon. A sibilant voice in her ear, whispering the whole way back. It takes her all of three minutes. 

Seteth and Hanneman are waiting by her door when she arrives, but neither of them comments on what must be in the suspiciously sword-shaped bundle under her arm. She’s grateful. If she has to explain this decision to anyone, she’ll probably break down and become useless. Flayn and Manuela take one look at her anguished face and let her pass, let her approach the bed and her thrashing, dying partner.

Shamir unrolls the canvas and lets the relic fall onto the mattress beside Catherine. One flailing arm whacks into the crossguard, and the sword glows to life with a vengeance. Catherine gasps in a breath, her first in minutes. A hand grabs for it, closes on the blade. Blood spills, but the hand only grips it tighter. 

The other people fade out of the room, so when Catherine’s eyes roll back into place and she looks frantically around, it’s only Shamir standing over her, looking at Catherine like a thousand thousand songs of mourning will never be enough to express what she’s feeling. 

“Miri?” Catherine’s voice is weak and thready.

“I’m here, love,” Shamir breathes, finally giving in and sitting next to her.There are tears in her eyes, but she won’t let them fall. She cups Catherine’s face in her hands. Shamir looks at the woman she adores, and gives up. “You were right. You need the sword. I’m sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I headcanon Dagda is kinda like ancient China, so I did some quick googling for ways for Shamir to swear that aren't just using a Goddess she doesn't believe in. I'll include the relevant text from the website I used at the bottom of chapters where it's relevant!
> 
> "In Chinese mythology, Hou Yi (后羿) is considered to be the greatest archer of all time. While he is perhaps best known for shooting down nine of the ten suns and saving the earth, he is also known as one of China's original star-crossed lovers alongside his wife Chang’e (嫦娥)"


End file.
